


For Something

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Dark, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Control, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking at Spike will only remind him how much this isn't Spike, not really, but a shattered hybrid put back together by so many hands -- including his own -- that the mirror is painfully distorted whenever Xander looks into it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Something

**Author's Note:**

> While I consider this dubious consent, many people do NOT. If non-con, inability to make decisions, or any variety of what ultimately means rape is going to trigger you, this is not the story you want to read.

Work is worse than usual, and Xander's not so much as angry as _everything_ by the time he gets home. Rage has bled into ever-present exhaustion and weary resignation that it isn't going to get better, it's probably going to get worse, and all the little things he used to take pride in himself about have been obliterated by necessity and corner too-closely cut.

He drops his keys onto the small table by the door, often called the Key Table for obvious reasons and trips and stumbles his way into the bedroom. He doesn't look right or left as he walks, vision growing dark around the edges until there's only the tunnel of freshly vacuumed carpet changing from tan to light blue as he goes from living room to bedroom where the bed is precisely done up and smells faintly of pine cones.

He doesn't know why he thinks 'pine cones' and not just 'pine', but there's nothing sickeningly artificial about this smell, just woodsy and clean and comforting, like mint on the palate.

He doesn't get into bed so much as trip and fall face-first in an ungraceful sprawl. It doesn't matter. It never matters because cool hands are deft at removing his clothing, massaging here and there as they dance over his skin. Those hands release just enough tension that when pressure is exerted, Xander obeys the prompt and rolls onto his back.

Spike's mouth is warm as it slides down his cock.

Xander doesn't bother opening his eyes to watch. He's too tired, too frustrated, too disgusted by his lack of disgust as a tongue flutters against the underside of the head, expertly coaxing him into full hardness in a matter of moments. Looking at Spike will only remind him how much this _isn't_ Spike, not really, but a shattered hybrid put back together by so many hands -- including his own -- that the mirror is painfully distorted whenever Xander looks into it. So he doesn't, because he stays a hell of a lot saner that way.

Spike sucks him, lapping at glans, nuzzling his balls and blowing around the base of his cock, his breath still so oddly warm, which means he warmed it on purpose, because he thinks this is what Xander wants and while so many things are unknown and misunderstood _that_ part of who Spike know is is practically tattooed on Spike's forehead.

Xander should be disgusted. He should want to help. Instead he makes a sharp gesture with his right hand. The mouth around his cock doesn't lift up, but two seconds later an arse is pressed into his palm. Fingers delve between cheeks, finding slick waiting there as ordered, flesh giving easily as Xander finger-fucks him to the time of Spike's sucking.

"Ride me," he orders curtly, because that's all Spike wants and needs and all Xander can manage, which makes it all Spike wants or needs anyway.

With a final loving suck, Spike contorts himself with a grace _Circe de Soliel_ performers would be envious of, sliding down Xander's cock easily. He doesn't go slowly, muscles audible straining as he fucks himself hard against Xander's cock, because both of them know that if he had the energy, that's what he'd be doing right now. But he doesn't, so Spike does it for him.

Spike does a lot of things for him.

He tells Spike to jack off in the bathroom when he cleans up, afterwards, and goes to see to the dinner Spike's already mostly prepared. That night, Xander fucks Spike again, this time with Spike on his back, knees around his ears, crying out softly each time Xander slams into him, but doesn't let him come. Instead, he rolls onto his side and tells Spike to nurse. Almost mewling with pleasure -- the closest Spike can come to it, and how sick is that? -- Spike slithers down the bed and slides his mouth all the way down Xander's cock. It's soft, but then, the point isn't to suck Xander to orgasm. It's just to suck, a perverted binky, an obscene parade rest position, and the only way Spike can sleep.

At first, Xander had been confused and uncomfortable with Spike sleeping like this. But Spike doesn't breath and he never allows Xander to chafe or blister and now he doesn't even think about it anymore. He just slides his cock into Spike's throat and listens to the soft sucking sounds as Spike draws on something too spent to ever give him something.

Almost tenderly, for Xander has no real tenderness left in him, Xander runs a hand through Spike's hair and presses a complicated series of points on Spike's head and neck. "Good boy," he murmurs, sickened as he always is when Spike goes rigid as his dry orgasm -- the only real pleasure he is allowed -- suffuses him.

Sickened, but sometimes watching it, knowing that Xander is the only one to create it, provokes another orgasm from weary balls.

Tonight isn't one of those nights, thankfully. Xander waits until Spike finally settles again, mindlessly suckling his cock and providing a perfectly willing mouth when Xander wakes up hard and randy, idly stroking back dyed-by-him curls. It's not a good life, but he knows that Spike isn't unhappy. That has to count for something, right?


End file.
